“No, I need the statue for Vasaro. I believe you knew I wouldn’t tell Jonathan.”
“I hoped you wouldn’t.”
“And you knew which buttons to push.” She smiled bitterly. “You see, you’ve made me as guilty as you are.”
“If I’m to blame, then let me take care of it.”
“The hell I will. If I let the Wind Dancer come, it’s my guilt and my responsibility.” She stood up and took a step closer to him, her hands clenching into fists. “But we’re not going to cheat Jonathan, Alex.”
“That was never my intention.”
“How do I know what your intentions were?” Her eyes blazed at him from her pale face. “That statue is not going to be stolen. I’m going to stay here and make sure of that, Alex. You can play whatever games you want with that maniac, but it’s not going to hurt anyone but the two of you. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly.”
“Good.” She turned away with a jerky movement and resumed packing. “Then please wait outside while I finish packing and then you can take me to the airport. I don’t want to look at you right now.”
He had hurt her.
Alex watched Caitlin disappear into the lobby of the Charles de Gaulle Airport and his hands tightened on the steering wheel of the car. She didn’t look back but maintained the same cool remoteness she had exhibited since they had left the Place des Vosges. He would make it up to her after it was all over. He could make it right and she would understand.
Christ, he wished she would stay at Vasaro. The only thing he could do was try to minimize the threat to her by keeping away from her until after the party. Perhaps Ledford would pigeonhole Caitlin’s status in Alex’s life in the same unimportant category he had given Angela, and she would be safe.
Perhaps.
It was too nebulous and dangerous a word and concept to tolerate. He had to make certain Caitlin wasn’t harmed.
There was no way he was going to give Ledford a reason to make an “example” of Caitlin as he had Pavel.
“It’s a brilliant prototype.” Jonathan gazed musingly down at the crystal stopper on the desk. “LeClerc has the reputation of being difficult. I wasn’t sure that Karazov could get him to do the job.”
“But you’re still uneasy,” Peter said.
“We don’t know anything more about Karazov than we did before. Why does he want this so much? Why is he involved with Caitlin Vasaro?”
“It could be personal. He doesn’t appear to have any obvious ulterior motives.”
“Obvious?” Jonathan laughed shortly. “I’d bet there’s nothing obvious about Mr. Karazov. What was the word you used to describe him? Subterranean?”
“You’re worried about Caitlin?”
“I like her.” Jonathan frowned. “And Karazov isn’t a safe man.”
“What about the Wind Dancer? Do you think he has anything to do with the art thefts?”
“Why should he? You said yourself he has money to burn.”
“Then you’re going to sign the contracts?”
“I’m not sure.”
Peter hesitated before saying slowly, “It’s dangerous. Jennings would tell you to pass. You know you’re going to be under scrutiny when you accept the nomination. A business liaison with anyone questionable could cause an uproar.”
“I haven’t even decided whether to run.”
“You know you want to.”
“It would be a challenge.” Jonathan paused. “But there are other challenges.”
“Not one like running the greatest country in the world.”
“True.”
“Jennings will be—”
“Al Jennings may be a power in the Republican Party, but he doesn’t run my life.” An edge of steel had entered Jonathan’s tone. “I won’t be a puppet for any group. If I decide not to sign the contracts, it won’t be because I’m afraid to displease the party.”
Peter chuckled as he stood. “I think you’re spoiling for a fight. You haven’t had any fun since you squashed that lawsuit against Cunard shipping.”
Jonathan found his annoyance ebbing away. “Maybe.” He looked down at the sheaf of papers in front of him. “If I decide not to go through with the deal, you won’t get to see your precious journal and Karazov will stop working on the inscription.”
Peter was silent.
“It means a lot to you.”
“Not enough to cost you the nomination. I’ll find some other way to see the journal.”
“I told Karazov I’d sign the contracts if he came through with his side of the bargain. We received the contracts signed by Chelsea Benedict two days ago.”
“Yes.”
“And LeClerc has designed the package.” Jonathan leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the portrait of Louis Charles Andreas on the far wall of the study. “Karazov wants this deal to go through. If I refuse to honor my promise, what do you think he’ll do?”
“Find another way to get what he wants.”
“And we’ve already established the man’s a genius at plotting. Wouldn’t it be safer to deal with him in the open and retain control?”
“Jennings wouldn’t think it safer.”
“I told you that I don’t let the Jenningses of the world run my life,” Jonathan said impatiently. “My contract is going to be with Caitlin Vasaro, and any connection with Karazov will be extremely tenuous.”
Peter rose to his feet. “I’m not going to be involved in this particular decision. You’re on your own, Jonathan.”
Jonathan grinned. “Coward.”
Peter nodded soberly. “Personally, I believe you’d be one of the greatest presidents the country has ever had, and I don’t want to see you jeopardize your opportunity to run.”
Jonathan’s smile faded. “I haven’t said I’m going to sign the contracts.”
Peter moved toward the door. “I can see it coming. You’re teetering on the edge.”
“Perhaps. I’ll have to think about it.”
“In the meantime, I’ll redouble the security arrangements just on the off chance Karazov has a yen for the Wind Dancer that has nothing to do with its monetary value.”
That same afternoon Jonathan signed the contracts and Peter sent them by courier service back to Caitlin at Vasaro.
“Marisa’s such a lovely person. Very quiet and unassuming.” Katrine followed Caitlin into her room and watched her place her overnight case down on the bed. “Not at all what you’d expect from the daughter of a movie star. I offered to take her to Cannes and Nice, but the only trip I could get her to take in the two weeks she’s been here was to the Jacques Cousteau Oceanographic Museum in Monte Carlo. The rest of the time she spent in the fields with Jacques or wandering around the property.”
Caitlin unsnapped her overnight case and opened the lid. “She’s a nice child. I’m glad she hasn’t caused you any trouble. I didn’t think she would.”
Katrine frowned thoughtfully. “A child? Oh, I don’t think Marisa’s a child at all.”
Caitlin looked at her in surprise. “She’s only sixteen.”
“I still don’t think . . .” She trailed off vaguely and then asked, “Alex didn’t return with you?”
“He had business in Paris and he knew I was going to be here only overnight.” Caitlin didn’t look at Katrine. “Everything’s going very well.”
“I’ll miss him.” Katrine smiled. “But I’ll enjoy still having the Lamborghini at my disposal. I felt quite grand tooling about Nice in it.”
Caitlin turned to look at her. “Alex told you that you could drive it?”
“Of course. He gave me the keys before you left for the United States.” Katrine raised a beautifully plucked eyebrow and pouted. “I’d hardly take it without his permission.”
“No. I didn’t know . . .” Caitlin started unpacking. “He didn’t tell me.”
“He’s very thoughtful.”
“Yes.” Caitlin had a sudden memory of the trouble Alex had gone to to lease t
he house on the square and felt a queer aching sense of loss. She looked down and saw that her hands had involuntarily clenched her navy blue skirt and impatiently released the material. The fields. She needed to get back to work in the fields and everything would be fine. “Mother, would you ask Sophia to finish unpacking for me? I want to change and go down to the fields to see Jacques.”
Katrine nodded. “I’ll do it. I’m not busy right now.” She moved toward the bed and her brow knitted in a frown as she saw the navy blue suit on top of the clothes in the suitcase. “You surely didn’t wear that old thing? And I don’t see anything new in there. What on earth did you do in Paris if you didn’t go shopping?”
Caitlin smiled. “I found a few things to occupy my time. It was a business trip, you know. I have to get back tomorrow to complete the arrangements for the party after you sign the contracts.” Caitlin unbuttoned her blouse and stripped it off as she strode over to the bureau to get a work shirt. “But Paris is always enjoyable, and there were the museums.”
And Alex, wreathed in steam, moving in and out of her body.
And the sound of Alex’s laughter in the courtyard of the Louvre.
And Alex lifting his brows in surprise when the headwaiter escorted the old lady and her pet Afghan to the table next to their own.
“You always did like the museums.” Katrine handed her a clean pair of denim jeans. “I heard on television that they’ve doubled the guards at the Louvre. I can’t imagine why you’d want to go to a place with armed policemen all about.”
“They were very unobtrusive.”
“Anyway, I’m glad you’re home.” Katrine watched her tug on the jeans. “There was another of those attacks by the Black Medina in Athens yesterday and Lars Krakow announced he’s formed an antiterrorist task force to capture them.”
“Good. No one else seems to be able to stop them.” Perhaps this horror with Ledford would be over soon.
Katrine smiled. “I remember hearing stories about Krakow when I was growing up. He was the hero of my childhood. All the children used to paste pictures of him and de Gaulle in their scrapbooks. Krakow beat the Nazis and he’ll find a way of catching those canailles.” She shivered. “Thank heaven you don’t see anything like that happening in civilized cities like Cannes or Nice. The larger the city, the more chance for trouble.”
“Paris was very peaceful while we were there.” Caitlin fastened her jeans and sat down on the bed to tug on her boots. “The only difference I noticed were the soldiers at the airport.”
Caitlin could think of nothing else to say and became conscious of the same awkward silence that usually fell between them after their few common interests were exhausted.
Katrine didn’t seem to notice. She was still frowning at the navy blue suit. “You really must let me throw this dowdy thing away, dear. It’s an abomination.”
Marisa Benedict looked up and smiled as Caitlin walked toward her down the row of tuberoses. “You’re Caitlin Vasaro. I saw you at the dock in Reykjavik.” Her eyes twinkled. “And I’d recognize you anyway from all the pictures in the albums your mother showed me.”
“My mother showed you those pictures?”
“Oh, yes, she’s very proud of you.” Marisa wiped her perspiring forehead on the sleeve of her shirt. “But I guess you know that.”
“No.” Caitlin glanced thoughtfully back at the manor house, remembering that moment of awkwardness before she had left Katrine. Her mother sometimes surprised her and she was always resolving to make more of an effort to understand her. Well, there was no time for that now. “No, I didn’t.” She turned back to Marisa. “You don’t have to work in the fields. You’re our guest at Vasaro.”
“I like it.” Marisa snapped off a blossom and tossed it into the basket. “And I’m used to working outside on my vacations. I spent the last two summers working with the dolphins at the San Diego Marine Institute. I’m going to be a marine biologist.”
“I see.” Caitlin began to pick. “Was that why you were in Iceland, rescuing the whale?”
“Someone has to do something.” She paused in her picking to look out over the fields. “Vasaro is very beautiful. It was kind of you to let me come.”
“My mother tells me you’re no trouble and you’ve evidently been a great help to Jacques.”
“You know, there’s something very soothing about picking the flowers,” Marisa said softly. “It reminds me of the way I feel when I’m snorkeling. It’s another world. Everywhere you look you see fresh beauty, and it surrounds you and sinks in and takes away all the ugliness and pain.”
Caitlin stared at the young girl’s luminous face and felt a strong sense of empathy. Marisa was scarcely more than a child, but she had known a good deal of the ugliness and pain she had spoken about. “Yes, it does help.”
Marisa glanced at Caitlin and smiled gently. “My mother said I’d like you. I hope we can be friends.”
Caitlin returned her smile. “I’m sure we can.”
Turkey
The picture in the Sunday supplement of the London Times immediately caught Brian Ledford’s eye. He stopped and whistled softly through his teeth. “Beautiful. My God, he’s beautiful.”
“Who?” Across the table from him, Hans Brucker lifted his golden head with the swift, dangerous grace of a lion scenting an intruder in his domain.
“You wouldn’t be interested.” Brian didn’t take his eyes from the newspaper. “Eat your breakfast.”
“I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t interested.” Hans’s well-shaped lips curled sulkily. “And I’m not hungry.”
“I noticed last night when we went for that midnight swim you were getting a little on the thin side,” Brian said. “I worry about you. You must take care of yourself, my boy.”
“I’ll do what I please.” But a moment later Hans began to eat his toast.
He was becoming too tame, Brian thought with regret. It was always a challenge to break them, but once the task was done he usually felt this sense of sadness. He had recruited Hans Brucker when he had first formed the Black Medina over a year before, attracted as much by the boy’s sleek blond manliness as his lethal talent with explosives. Brucker’s combination of angelic good looks and cold violence had ignited in Brian an excitement greater than any he had known in years.
Hans had grown up on the streets of Munich, joined the Sons of Justice terrorist group when he was twelve, and killed his first man a year later. By the time he caught Ledford’s attention he had killed nine more individuals in various skillful and unpleasant ways and become a genius at the art of building and planting bombs and plastic explosives. The boy was only eighteen, not overly bright, tough, swaggering, and immured with the male machismo Brian detested. He was quite perfect. How could he have possibly resisted him? Brian thought with amusement.
Physical seduction was out of the question with the boy, but mental and emotional subjugation were entirely possible. After he had decided Hans was a worthy challenge, Brian had set about “learning” him and found exactly how to manipulate him to the maximum. In his experience, orphans usually responded to a strong father figure more than a lover, even lethal orphans like Hans, and Brian was expert at playing the father. Within six months Hans had become completely dependent on him. It was a pity the challenge was over now.
“Who is he?”
The boy was jealous. He would have been both surprised and revolted to realize how close this passionate emotional attachment he had for Brian was to sexual bondage. Brian was tempted to let him stew for a while, but that wouldn’t have been sensible. Hans was a bit psychotic and it would be wise to keep him stable.
“Don’t worry, Hans. It’s only a statue.” He held up the newspaper. “The Wind Dancer. Isn’t it pretty?”
“Yeah.” Hans didn’t look at the picture as he relaxed and smiled. “Are we going to take it?”
“Very likely.”
“He said no more thefts.”
“Then we’ll have to change his mind, won
’t we?” Brian looked down at the picture again. “Because I really must have it. Call the newspaper and see who released these articles about the Wind Dancer coming to Paris.”
“Call them yourself. I’m not your slave.”
“But you like to please me.” Brian’s voice was velvet soft, his gaze never leaving the newspaper. “And I really want you to do this for me.”
Though he didn’t bother to lift his eyes, Brian knew the hot color was flooding Hans’s fair cheeks. The boy had become boringly predictable. Hans muttered a curse, pushed his chair back from the table, and strode over to the telephone.
Brian leaned back in his chair and gazed thoughtfully at the picture of the Wind Dancer. His partner would have to be persuaded that one more theft would do no major harm to the integrity of the plan. Perhaps he would be more amenable if Brian offered to underwrite the expenses of the operation. No, that probably wouldn’t be enough. He would no doubt demand Brian’s group execute the job he had repeatedly refused to perform for the last few weeks. Christ, he hated to do it. The man had no respect for the beauties of the past; he was as culturally sensitive as Attila the Hun.
Hans replaced the receiver. “Alex Karazov.”
Brian threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Wonderful. He’s really wonderful.” He slapped his knee. “God, I knew it. I wonder how he managed to do it?”
“You know Karazov?”
“Don’t pout. You surely recall my old friend Alex? I had to make an example of a good friend of his.”
Hans frowned. “I remember now. June. You wouldn’t let me go with you.”
Why hadn’t he let Hans go with him on that trip? Brian wondered. He had still been in the midst of subjugating Hans at the time, and he knew the boy would have enjoyed working on Rubanski. Brian could have arranged matters so that he and Alex needn’t have met.
Yet, for some reason, he had wanted to keep the encounter with Alex entirely separate. Entirely his own. He had told Alex his feelings for him were ambivalent, but he wasn’t sure exactly what they were these days.
He wondered if he could still feel love. Brian had closed that emotion away from him for so long a time, he wasn’t sure what it was any longer. He hated Karazov, but he also wanted him and respected him. At times he had even protected him. Hatred was supposed to border on love. Did he love as well as hate Alex Karazov?
Reap the Wind Page 19
