Reap the Wind

by Iris Johansen

  “Are you going to kill him?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  “Let me do it. I’ll do it for you.” Hans’s voice was fierce, his blue eyes shimmering with eagerness. “You’re right. I do like to do things for you.”

  “That’s because we care for each other. Like father and son.” The boy was really exquisite, Brian thought impersonally as he reached out and gently stroked the golden hair back from Hans’s face. Hans used to wear his hair clipped brutally short in an attempt to minimize those angelic good looks and appear more macho. It was a badge of Brian’s success that after only five months he had been able to convince him to let it grow to its present length. Now he could feel the quiver of emotion that went through the boy’s body as he touched that shining fall of hair. He would never have been able to break Alex to his will like this, he thought with dissatisfaction. “No, if it’s to be done, I’ll do it.”

  Rage flared in the boy’s eyes. “You like him.”

  “Don’t be silly. I don’t like him.” Brian smiled as he glanced back at the picture of the Wind Dancer. Neither Karazov nor the Wind Dancer inspired any feelings as puny as liking. Yet, in a way, he felt a very similar passion for both of them. “But I think we should find out what else my old friend Alex is up to at the moment. Let’s see now, who did I have make that little surprise delivery for me?” He snapped his fingers. “Ferrazo. Call Ferrazo in Paris and tell him that from now on I want Karazov kept under constant surveillance.”

  “I’ll go. Let me do it.”

  Brian chuckled. “And in a few days we’d find Karazov split open like an overripe watermelon in some alley. Call Ferrazo.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “You don’t have to like it, just do it. Now be quiet while I call Brussels and see if I can negotiate a deal with our charming friend.” He went to the telephone. In minutes he was connected and had explained what he wanted to do.

  “Impossible,” his partner said.

  “I’ve been most cooperative with your demands,” Ledford replied. “I want this.”

  There was a silence on the other end of the line. “How much do you want it?”

  Ledford sighed. “All right, it goes against my aesthetic principles, but you can have your big boom.”

  “It’s a fair exchange, one antiquity for another. I don’t know why you’re so fond of those dinosaurs anyway. It’s time we swept out the trash of the centuries to clear the way for a new world of clear thinking and clean, modern lines.”

  “I said I’d do it.”

  “I’ll need four.”

  Ledford thought about it. “Four would deplete me too radically. I’ll give you three.”

  Another silence. “If you’ll do another job for me as well. Smythe’s being obstructive. I may need the help of your companion to remove him.”

  Ledford glanced across the veranda at Hans lounging with one jean-clad leg gracefully flung over the arm of a white rattan chair. A faint smile touched his lips. “How?”

  “Nothing violent. I believe a heart attack would suffice.”

  “Hans will be disappointed. He’s feeling quite irritated at the moment and would relish a chance of releasing his ire. When?”

  “Come to Liverpool tomorrow. I have to attend a meeting at the Hilton, and Smythe will be there. He’s going to take a room for the night and won’t return to London until the following day. I’ve arranged to meet him day after tomorrow for lunch and a final discussion.”

  Ledford chuckled. “Final being the operative word.”

  “If I shake hands with him on leaving, you’ll know the job is canceled. Otherwise, I want him removed before he can talk to anyone. You understand?”

  “Perfectly.” Ledford’s voice was gentle. “You persist in believing me to be thick-witted. I wonder how you would have survived trying to accomplish my end of our enterprise. It takes more than fine speeches and using the media to steal a ‘Mona Lisa.’ ”

  “It takes a one-point-five-million-dollar bribe.”

  “And months of weakening the moral fiber of a man who had never before taken a bribe. I’d say my psychological acumen equals yours, wouldn’t you?”

  Silence again, and Ledford could practically hear the mental cogs turning as the bastard tried to decide whether it was best to try to pacify or dominate him. “I’ve never questioned your intelligence, Ledford. Why else would I have offered you the opportunity to join us?”

  Because you thought you could control me, you son of a bitch, Brian thought without emotion. Well, he would accept the control as long as it suited his purpose, but it was time he demonstrated he could twist all those fine plans into knots if he chose to do it. “We’ll be in Liverpool tomorrow.”

  “If I shake hands with Smythe, it’s canceled. This is most inconvenient. We may need Smythe to get to Cartwright.”

  “We can manage without him.” Ledford hung up the phone, feeling real pleasure as he pictured the outraged response that rude action would elicit. He hoped the arrogant twit had a stroke.

  “I have a wonderful jaunt in mind for you, dear boy,” he told Hans. “Our friend has a lagniappe he wants me to give him beside the big boom.”

  “Lagniappe?”

  “It’s a word used in Louisiana. It means giving something a little extra, as a baker might give a customer a thirteenth cookie. Lagniappe should be no trouble for you in this case. You’re used to giving me something extra whenever I ask for it.”

  Hans frowned, puzzled. “What does he want?”

  “A heart attack.”

  “Who does he want wasted?”

  “The Honorable John Roland Smythe, an aide to Amanda Cartwright, the special envoy to the European Economic Community. He handles all her travel arrangements, among other things. It appears the gentleman is incorruptible, unbribable, and deplorably discreet. Evidently, he can’t be seduced or blackmailed to the cause, and he’s been told too much to leave alive unless he agrees to work with us.”

  “I’ve never killed a Britisher before.”

  “Then you have a treat in store for you, don’t you?”

  “Why a heart attack? I don’t like using injections. There are other ways.”

  “That would doubtless be far more satisfying to you.” Ledford traced Hans’s beautifully shaped lips with the tip of his index finger. “But it has to look like a natural death.”

  Hans frowned. “I don’t understand. One time he wants us to do jobs that will cause an uproar and the next we have to keep everything secret. Why?”

  “You don’t have to understand.”

  Hans’s lips set stubbornly. “Why?”

  Brian sighed. Hans could be regrettably obstinate on occasion. “Hans, dear boy, you don’t even read the newspaper. How am I supposed to explain—” He stopped and then spoke slowly and clearly, as if to a small child. “The twelve European countries who belong to the common market are trying to lower all barriers. They’re even trying to get a common currency, ridding the world of pounds, lire, francs, and so forth. For years there have been groups that also wanted to form all those countries under one government. Can you imagine the power and rewards anyone could reap if they controlled a united Europe?”

  Hans frowned impatiently. “What does that have to do with us?”

  “There was too much opposition to total unification. Now our people control fifty-five percent of the newspapers and two cable stations in Europe, and that helps to shape public opinion, but it might still have taken years to persuade the key figures in all those governments to come into the camp.” He smiled. “So the Black Medina was born. You like cowboy movies. Have you noticed how the wagons gather in a circle for protection when the Indians are attacking?”

  Hans nodded.

  “Well, all those fine countries are the wagons we’re herding together. All we have to do is send a few more waves of Indians at them and they’ll be screaming for any protection they can get. If they can’t get it from their own governments, they’ll turn to wh
oever can offer it. We’ve planned one final disruption to make that happen.”

  “The one you told me about here in Turkey.”

  Brian nodded. “Once they’re ready for plucking, we’ll scoop them up so fast, they won’t know what hit them. Great Britain is quarrelsome on too many issues, and that disturbs our friend very much.”

  “Oh.” Hans was silent a moment. “But why do I have to use the hypodermic on Smythe?”

  Hans was back to square one, and Brian wondered in exasperation how much of what he had said had gotten through that beautiful golden head. “Because there must be no hint of threat surrounding Cartwright in the next few months. It will make it more difficult to replace him with a man of our own who will prove more cooperative.”

  “You’re going to kill the old lady.”

  Brian flinched. “She’s not an old lady, she’s a woman in the prime of life. All of us can’t be eighteen.”

  “I’ve never killed an old lady either.”

  “I doubt if you’ll be chosen to do it.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a job that requires careful planning and coordination of all concerned.”

  “I can do it. Please.” Hans took Brian’s hand in both his own and brought it to his lips. “I . . . need to do it.”

  “Indeed? Why?”

  “I used to be—” He paused, searching for words. “People used to respect me. I could walk into a room and feel as if I owned it. Before you made me so . . .” He trailed off and then whispered. “I used to do things.”

  Brian clucked gently. “Is your self-worth suffering from our relationship? I thought I’d taught you that a proper son gives respect and obedience in all things. I have no desire to make you unhappy. Perhaps it would be better for you if I let you go.”

  “No!” Hans’s grasp tightened on Brian’s hand. “You know I didn’t mean—just give me more to do.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Brian smiled. “Let’s see how you do the day after tomorrow with Smythe.” His smile faded and his expression became thoughtful. “And after you’ve attended to Smythe, while you’re in jolly old England I may have you toddle around to Kilane Downs in Yorkshire on another job.”

  The son of a bitch didn’t offer to shake his hand as they paused beside the bank of elevators, and Smythe felt relieved. He didn’t think he could stomach touching the man after what he had just heard.

  “Mull it over. It’s the only way for us to go.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Smythe pushed the button for the elevator. “I’ll let you know. I’m sure you believe you’re doing the right thing, but it’s not something to consider lightly.” The doors of the elevator slid open and Smythe hurriedly stepped into the cubicle. “You understand that you caught me off guard. It came as a surprise. I have to—” He broke off as he saw the thin, contemptuous smile on the other man’s face. Smythe panicked as he realized he was not deceiving him, that his revulsion had been too obvious.

  The doors slid closed, blocking out that faultlessly elegant, threatening presence, and Smythe drew a deep breath as he pushed the button for the sixth floor. All he had to do was get to his room and call the office. They’d send men to accompany him to Downing Street and he could tell his story.

  And what a story.

  He felt the same anger he had known when he had been told what they wanted of him. Christ, Amanda Cartwright could be hell on wheels to work for, but goddammit, she kept the wheels turning and he liked the old girl. He had no intention of letting her be put down at that conference.

  The doors slid open and he hurried from the elevator down the hall to his room. He thrust the key in the lock and opened the door.

  “Herr Smythe, could I speak to you?”

  His heart skipped a beat and his muscles tensed as fear swept through him. Then he relaxed as he glanced over his shoulder and saw a young boy strolling toward him from the direction of the elevators. He couldn’t be more than eighteen or nineteen, the same age as his own son, Robert, who had entered Oxford the past year. The boy was dressed in tight jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and white windbreaker, and his golden hair fell in a shining bell over his ears. Thank heaven, Rob always dressed with more conservatism than most of his age group and kept his hair carefully barbered. But this lad at least appeared cleaner and more attractive than most of Rob’s friends. “I’m sorry, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

  “But I’ve come such a long way, Herr Smythe.” The boy’s smile lit his handsome features with angelic radiance as he came even with Smythe. His left hand slid casually into the pocket of his windbreaker. “And I promise it will take only a moment.”

  Caitlin received a call at the InterContinental from Alex on the afternoon of September 30. His tone was terse and businesslike. “Chelsea Benedict is flying into Paris four days early. She wants you to make yourself available tomorrow and meet her in the lobby at one, when she arrives.”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “She thinks it is. It would probably be good public relations to keep her happy. It’s your decision.”

  “Very well, I’ll meet her. Did you get Baccarat to escalate the production of the bottles?”

  “No problem. They’ll have enough for the launch.”

  “You’ve succeeded again. So, threatening to take away what someone wants works almost as well as giving him what he wants.”

  “I’m not apologizing for twisting a few arms, Caitlin.”

  Why was she arguing with him, when all she wanted to do was get off the phone and away from his voice? “I’m not condemning you,” she said wearily. “It just seemed overly manipulative.”

  “It was.” He paused. “And I am.”

  “Yes, you are.” She dropped the subject. “And the publicity?”

  “Haven’t you seen the newspapers?”

  “I haven’t paid much attention lately. It seems as if I’ve spent half the time talking on the phone to Serdeaux at the perfume factory and the other half working on the arrangements for the party. Have we been in the newspapers?”

  “The announcement of the Wind Dancer’s journey to France is all over the newspapers and television.”

  “Then you’ve got what you wanted.”

  An odd thread of tension entered Alex’s voice. “Yes, I’ve got what I wanted.” He added deliberately, “What we both wanted. I’ll call Chelsea back and tell her you’ve agreed to meet her.”

  When Caitlin went down to the lobby at one the next afternoon, she found Chelsea surrounded by piles upon piles of luggage, bedazzled bellboys, a man in a chauffeur’s uniform, and the concierge. She looked completely different from the casually dressed woman Caitlin had met in Reykjavik. Today Chelsea wore a skintight brown dress, her bright hair blazing against the dark fabric. She looked superbly confident and utterly chic.

  “Hi,” Chelsea called to Caitlin. “Be with you in a minute.” Miraculously, the actress proved true to her word. With lightning efficiency she arranged to have the concierge check her in, dispatched tips to the bellboys, and crooking her finger at the chauffeur to follow her, she strode briskly across the lobby toward Caitlin. “What a madhouse. Caitlin, this is George. He’s going to be our chauffeur while I’m in Paris.”

  Caitlin barely had time to murmur an acknowledgment before Chelsea whisked her out of the front entrance and into a black stretch limousine parked on the Rue de Castiglione. “I hope you don’t mind, but I told the concierge to have your stuff moved into my suite. I know I should have asked you first, but those damn VIP suites are always as big as a football field and you won’t have trouble avoiding me if you like. I hate being alone in hotels.”

  “No, I don’t mind.” Startled as Chelsea practically pushed her into the backseat of the limousine, Caitlin asked, “Where are we going?”

  “Shopping.” Chelsea’s gaze raked over Caitlin’s tailored gray dress. “Though Christian Lacroix may never let you in the front door in that thing. Oh, well, we’ll tell them you’ve been in the Cong
o for the past five years. They wouldn’t dare throw out a missionary.” She paused before she got into the limousine to take a deep breath. “Lord, I love the smell of Paris. It’s not like anything else. Fresh-baked croissants, the flower carts, the carbon monoxide from the tourist buses . . .”

  Caitlin laughed. “And the clicking of the cameras.”

  “That’s sound, not scent. Let’s get our senses straight.” Chelsea stepped into the limousine and George slammed the door shut. “Come along and we’ll breathe in the perfume-laden air of Lacroix.”

  Caitlin settled back on the plush seat. “I prefer the scents of Vasaro. I think you will too. When has Alex arranged to have the commercials shot?”

  “Too soon, my dear, too soon. Shortly after the party. Alex has hired Pauley Hartland to direct the commercials.” When Caitlin looked at her blankly, she continued. “Pauley won the Clio award two years running for the best television commercial.”

  Caitlin’s eyes twinkled as she nodded solemnly. “You mean he’s good.”

  “The best.”

  “Are any of the commercials being shot with the Wind Dancer?”

  “Not the ones at Vasaro. Alex told Pauley he absolutely can’t take the Wind Dancer to Vasaro for security reasons, so Pauley’s shooting one interior commercial in order to use the statue in it.” She made a face. “But the location scouts haven’t come up with any-

  thing yet.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “A restaurant or club. Romantic rather than sophisticated.”

  “La Rotonde.”

  Chelsea looked at her inquiringly.

  “It’s a marvelous café at the Negresco Hotel in Nice. Carousel horses that go up and down on pedestals between the tables and booths. In the center of the room there’s a life-size little-girl doll dressed in a white Victorian dress playing an organ grinder.” She closed her eyes, trying to remember. “They play soft Viennese waltzes and the windows have those lovely pink Austrian blinds that drape so beautifully.”