Reap the Wind

by Iris Johansen

  “You’ve taken hundreds of pictures of me,” she protested. “And pictures are supposed to be true to life. I’m definitely no angel.”

  “I know.” Like her mother, Marisa could be surprisingly earthy at times. “I want the picture anyway.”

  Not angelic. Grave and sweet and all that spoke of life in its most radiant hour.

  Sunrise.

  Marisa and Peter stopped at the geranium field on their way to the village to chat for a moment with Jacques.

  “You’ve hired some new people,” Marisa remarked as she looked down at the field from the vantage point on the hill where she stood with Peter and Jacques. “Did you need them? The geranium harvest is almost over.”

  Jacques shrugged. “Anise is too big with child to work in the fields now and Pierre had to go to Lyon and help his mother in her shop for a while. So I hired a couple of transients day before yesterday to replace them.” He grimaced. “They won’t last long. Neither of them likes getting their fingers dirty and their backsides sweaty.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I can come down and help pick in the mornings.” She turned to Peter, who was sighting his camera down at the field. “I’ll see you at the perfumery tomorrow afternoon instead of morning.”

  “What?” His tone was absent as he clicked a few more pictures. “Okay. Fine.”

  “Did you hear me?”

  “You’re going to slave in the Elysian fields.” He grimaced as he focused the camera on Jacques’s strong, weather-lined face and snapped. “I wish I could help.”

  “Forget it. You have your own work to do.” Marisa’s gaze went to the two men working at the far end of the row. Jacques was probably right, she thought. Neither of the men was moving with the smooth, coordinated rhythm of the other workers in the field and were doing more laughing and talking than picking. The tall, sandy-haired boy looked English and was probably on holiday. The other man was older, perhaps in his early thirties, short, stocky, and dark-complexioned. “Well, I think I could probably do a better job than they’re doing, Jacques. They certainly don’t look like they’re working up a sweat.”

  “I’ll stir them up.” Jacques’s lips tightened grimly as he started down the hill. “They’ll get sweaty whether they like it or not.” He called, “Hey, Kembro, you think it’s a garden party? We pick the flowers, not smell them.”

  The tall, sandy-haired boy looked up guiltily and then began to pick swiftly.

  “You, too, Ferrazo,” Jacques called to the older man. “You wanted the job. Now do it.”

  Ferrazo lifted his head to look at Jacques and his teeth bared in an easy smile. His gaze wandered to where Marisa and Peter stood on the hill. He appraised them at leisure before looking down on the orange-red geraniums.

  Late that day Ledford received a call from Ferrazo at his apartment in Paris.

  “I think someone took my picture today. That Maskovel guy who is staying in the village,” Ferrazo said as soon as Ledford answered the phone. “I don’t like it.”

  “Did he seem suspicious?”

  “No, he’s been taking pictures all over the place.”

  “Then don’t worry about it.” Ledford leaned back in his chair. “Is that all?”

  Ferrazo continued belligerently. “No, I don’t like sweating my ass off working in these fields and taking guff. I’ve been hanging around here for almost a week now. I didn’t sign on with you to work at a farm.”

  “Only for a little longer. What’s the Vasaro woman been doing since she got there?”

  “She didn’t get here.”

  Ledford slowly sat upright in his chair again as shock spread through him. “What do you mean, she didn’t get there? She left the hotel four days ago and took the plane for Nice.”

  “Well, she didn’t come here. Only the film crew and Maskovel and—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me she didn’t come back to Vasaro?”

  “I thought you knew.” Ferrazo’s tone was defensive. “You sent me here in case she came back to Vasaro.”

  Alex had sent for her to come to Istanbul to be with him. He had taken the initiative and managed to deceive both Ledford’s people and Ledford himself. How he must be laughing at them all now. Ledford was suddenly spiraling back in time to that ignominious period at Langley, and rage spiked through him.

  Then shock was replaced by pain so great, Ledford could scarcely think. He felt betrayed. How could Alex do this to him? He had let that whore come between them and their grand and splendid game. No wonder he had gone underground, and the Gypsy had not been able to find him after those first two days. He was probably balling the slut even now. Ledford had held his hand when he could have ordered Ferrazo to kill him, and this was how he had been repaid. He spoke through clenched teeth. “Damn your stupidity. I wanted to know everything about the woman.”

  “I ain’t stupid. I didn’t know you—should I stay here at Vasaro?”

  “What?” Ledford tried to think through the haze of pain enveloping him. “Where are you calling from?”

  “The pharmacy in the village.”

  “Give me the telephone number and stay there. I’ll call you back.”

  Ledford took down the number and then hung up the receiver.

  Caitlin Vasaro. He had seen newspaper photos of her at the party at Versailles but could recall only a vague impression of a tall woman with delicate facial features. She had been a mere pawn, but now she was assuming importance. She had not stayed cowering and afraid in her proper place after his warning. She, too, must have been aggressively involved in this deception. It was her fault. She had taken advantage of Alex’s shocked state after Pavel’s death to seduce him, to try to distract him from his inevitable confrontation with Brian. She was the one who had caused Alex to betray him.

  He started to reach for the telephone but then let his hand drop away. Lock it away. Compartmentalize. First, he must get this business at the Louvre out of the way. He mustn’t do anything impulsive when so much was at stake. Since Alex had come back into his life, he had noticed it was becoming difficult to shut away his feelings and he recognized the danger. Once he shut away emotion, he could see it was irrational to blame Alex for betraying him because he had not known what Brian planned for him if he met the test. This irrationality had almost destroyed him as a boy, but he now had it firmly under control.

  He sat down in the chair beside the table and tried to clear his mind of all emotion. He must think coldly and concisely of how to show Alex he had won nothing by this deception and correct the wrong done him.

  Alex was standing by the French doors and whirled to face Caitlin as she walked into the cottage. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Easy, Alex,” Kemal said quietly as he rose from the couch.

  Caitlin took one look at Alex’s grim expression and was immediately on guard. She put down her notebook and purse on the table beside the door and removed her sunglasses. “The Archaeological Museum.” She strode around the bar, opened the refrigerator, and took out a bottle of ginger ale. Ignoring Alex entirely, she said, “Hello, Kemal.”

  “Good afternoon, Caitlin.” He beamed at her. “Did you have a pleasant day?”

  “No, I’ve had one hell of a day. I have a headache, my neck feels like one big knot, and I’m dead tired.” She poured the ginger ale into a glass and put the bottle back in the refrigerator. “And I don’t feel like facing an inquisition.”

  “Too damn bad.” Alex glared at her. “You leave here before I get up and don’t come home until almost three in the afternoon and you don’t expect me to question you?”

  “You sound like a cross between a headmaster and an irate husband. Neither role becomes you.”

  “He was worried,” Kemal said quickly. “He thought you were with me until I dropped in for lunch.”

  “You should have been with him,” Alex said. “But no, you go wandering around Istanbul by yourself without telling anyone where—”

  “I left a note.”

&
nbsp; “Which said only that you’d be back in a few hours.”

  “I didn’t expect to be this long. I went to the museum and I didn’t want anyone hovering over me while I was working.” She lifted the glass to her lips and sipped the ginger ale. “Besides, Kemal would have been bored.”

  “With you? Never.”

  “Shut up, Kemal,” Alex said.

  Kemal nodded. “It seems the wise course.” He sat down on a stool and leaned his elbows on the breakfast bar. “Proceed.”

  Caitlin went around the bar and sat down in the Queen Anne chair across from the couch. “I’m not going to make excuses, Alex. I can’t let Ledford make me a prisoner. There’s no reason for Ledford to suspect I didn’t take that plane to Nice, and he clearly doesn’t know we’re here or he would have made a move by now. I wanted to go to the museum, and I went.”

  “Without protection.”

  “I went out three days in a row with Kemal and nothing happened.”

  “But who would dare bother you with a tiger like me to defend—” Kemal intercepted Alex’s stare and shook his head. “I think it would be better if I left. It’s very difficult for me not to participate, and I am confused about which side to take.” He slipped from the stool and moved toward the door. “And, of course, whichever side I chose would surely win, so it would really not be fair.” He opened the front door. “Sort it out. I will see you tomorrow.”

  Caitlin stared at the door after he had closed it and suddenly started to laugh. “He’s impossible.”

  “They created the word for him.” His attempt at a smile faded. “Kemal was right. I was worried. It was bad enough when you went out with him, but this was a hell of a lot worse. You’re getting overconfident.”

  “Maybe.” She leaned her head against the back of the chair. “I couldn’t just sit here. I need to feel that I was doing something.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “Looked at every tablet and wall with any script on exhibit in the whole museum. Then I talked to the curator, Monsieur Moduhl, and persuaded him to take me downstairs and let me go through the stored artifacts.”

  “No wonder you’re tired.”

  “There were a few tablets that had markings similar to those on the Wind Dancer, but the Wind Dancer’s script looks more Greek.”

  “Did you expect to find it there waiting for you?”

  “No.” She sipped the ginger ale and turned her head in a circle to try to ease the muscles. “When the Wind Dancer was made, there were so many widely separated lands and cultures that there must have been hundreds of splinter languages. Three of the tablets at the museum had never been deciphered. Rosetta Stones don’t fall from every tree. I don’t even know where to start.”

  “You’ve already started.”

  “I guess I have, haven’t I? The process of elimination is never satisfying. I showed the curator the pictures of the inscription and he said the glyphs looked vaguely familiar.”

  “Lean your head forward.” His voice was closer. He was standing directly behind her chair.

  “What?”

  He didn’t wait for her to obey him. His hands were on her nape, his strong fingers massaging while his thumbs moved up and down her neck.

  She stiffened, every muscle rigid.

  “Stop it,” he said roughly. “I’m only trying to help you. Close your eyes and relax.” The pads of his thumbs sank deep into the tendons of her neck, and a delicious shiver went through her as she felt a tiny burst of tension release. She melted back against the cushions of the chair. “Did he say where he thought he had seen it?”

  She closed her eyes and the isolating darkness made the pleasure he was bringing her so exquisitely intense, she had to gather her thoughts before she could remember what they had been talking about. “No, he said he’d think about it. I told him I’d check back with him tomorrow.”

  “You don’t think you’re pushing him a bit?”

  “It’s not pushing to remind him to think about it.”

  “And if he doesn’t remember by tomorrow?”

  “I’ll call him the next day.”

  “And the next day and the day after that.” He chuckled. “Tell me, does the poor man have an answering machine?”

  “I wouldn’t go that route again. I’m in the same city with Monsieur Moduhl.”

  “Allah help the man.”

  “That’s not fair. I was never rude to Peter.”

  “Just persistent.” His thumbs pressed into the muscles in her lower nape. “Next time you go to the museum, make sure you have either me or Kemal in tow.”

  His hands had fallen to her lower neck and clavicle and she felt almost dazed with pleasure as he dug and massaged and soothed the twisted muscles. Spurts of released pressure mixed with pain sent the blood coursing through her body and turned her weak. “I can concentrate better when I’m by myself.”

  “Not if you’re dead.”

  The soft words jarred her but not enough to bring her out of the haze. The skin of her throat and shoulders was beginning to heat and tingle beneath his hands. Strange, even though her eyes were shut she could almost see his strong, tan fingers moving rhythmically, deeply, on her flesh. “I know there may be a threat . . . but it’s not real. It’s never been real to me. How can it be? It seems impossible someone I don’t even know would want to kill me. None of it makes sense.”

  “Caitlin, dammit, don’t be reckless and stupid about this. A target’s most vulnerable when he feels he’s safest. I’ve seen it all before. First comes the fear, then, when nothing happens for a while, boredom raises its head. Boredom breeds recklessness.” Alex’s voice was deep, soft, persuasive. She could smell the faint scent of his lime aftershave in the darkness. “I won’t interfere. Just let me be there.”

  Her muscles were now loose, fluid, tingling, but she still didn’t move. She wanted him to go on touching her and then—she pulled away from him and stood up with a jerky movement. Christ, how stupid could she get? She whirled to face him. “God, you’re good, Alex.”

  His gaze was wary. “I suppose you’re not referring to my ability as a masseur?”

  “Give them what they want, and they’ll do anything you want. Isn’t that the way it goes?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can’t control me with sex any longer, Alex.”

  “I wasn’t trying.” He met her stare directly. “Not at first. I wanted only to help you.”

  “But you would have done it.”

  He smiled bitterly. “Oh, yes, I’d use sex to control you if it meant keeping you alive. I’d use anything I’ve got.”

  13

  The car glided slowly across the Pont Royal. “I don’t like it,” Hans said, staring out onto the dark waters of the Seine. “You haven’t assigned enough men for a job at the Louvre, and it’s too soon after the cathedral.”

  “Three will be plenty.” Ledford glanced at Hans. “We’re going to blow it up, not steal the paintings.”

  “I thought you didn’t like blowing up paintings and stuff.”

  “The Winged Victory is not stuff,” Ledford said with a grimace. “I really must make some attempt at educating you.”

  A vast wave of relief rolled through Hans. Lately Brian had seemed impatient with him, as if he were tiring of the relationship. But if Brian said he’d try to make him smarter, it meant he still cared. There was hope. “I don’t know about any of that stuff, but I could learn.”

  Brian reached out and gently caressed Hans’s hair. Hans held himself very still, hiding the revulsion he felt. Brian was always touching Hans’s hair, fooling with it, winding it around his fingers. God, he hated that long, soft hair. He hated how he looked in the mirror now. He wasn’t what was in the mirror.

  “We’ll have to give you the chance,” Brian said. “As soon as this job is over.” He turned right and stopped by the Quai des Tuileries. “You have your knife? You’d better take out the guard at the gate quietly.”

  Hans nodded.

&
nbsp; “You’ll be fine once you’re in the courtyard. I’ve taken care of the other guards.”

  “Bribes?”

  Brian nodded. “Cordoza and Brenter will meet you by the glass pyramid in the Cour Napoleon. They’re carrying the explosives. Set the timers for ten minutes so you can make it here to the car.”

  Hans nodded. “I know my job.” He started to get out of the car.

  “Wait.” Brian’s eyes were gleaming brilliantly in the darkness as he leaned over and gently touched Hans’s cheek. “I wonder if you know how much I care about you?”

  Hans felt a shiver of joy run through him as it always did when Brian touched him lovingly. Before Brian had come along, no one had ever caressed him or taken care of him or disciplined him. He hated the discipline, but Brian said it was needed, that he did it only because he loved him like a father would a son and punishment was a part of loving.

  “Go on,” Brian whispered, his hand falling away from Hans’s cheek. “It’s time for you to go.”

  “I’ll see you.” Hans jumped out of the car and moved jauntily down the street toward the main entrance.

  The guard at the gate was standing with his back to the street, peering into the courtyard as if he had heard something. It was ridiculously easy for Hans to slip up behind him. He grasped the guard around the throat, covering his mouth with his left hand while his right hand, holding the fourteen-inch combat knife, dug up under the man’s rib cage to pierce his heart. Hans grimaced distastefully as the guard’s death released the usual foul smell of urine and waste.

  He dragged the guard into the courtyard and out of sight and then walked to the glass pyramid.

  Brenter and Cordoza were standing by the pyramid, and when they caught sight of Hans they moved toward him. Hans tensed as he saw Cordoza’s strong, good-looking features and thick black hair shining with a high luster in the moonlight. He had seen Brian looking speculatively at Cordoza once or twice in the past few months. Greasy spic. He’d never liked spics. He just hoped the bastard had the timers. On the last job he’d forgotten two of them, and if Hans hadn’t been able to rig a—