“Who was he?”
“An Italian. Ferrazo.” He paused. “He killed Peter Maskovel too. Marisa was shot twice, but they think she’ll make it.”
“My God.” Horror upon horror. She was silent a moment, trying to take it all in. “It was just to show us they could hurt me, wasn’t it? All of this, just to hurt me.”
Alex’s hand tightened on hers. “Go back to sleep.”
She shook her head. “Dreams . . .”
“I know.”
He did understand, she realized dimly. She could see it in his expression. He knew the fear of closing his eyes and seeing horrors of the past.
“Okay, don’t sleep. Just rest.” He scooped her up in his arms and leaned back in the chair, cradling her.
His white shirt had a three-cornered tear at the shoulder, and the scent of smoke was stronger now that she was nearer him. “Your clothes . . . smoke.”
He went still. “I haven’t gotten cleaned up yet. I didn’t want to leave you. I forgot it might remind you of—”
“It doesn’t bother me. I can’t hide from it.” On a subliminal plane it even brought her solace to know what Alex had risked to help her. She nestled her cheek deeper into the hollow of his shoulder. “If I’m too heavy, tell me. I know I’m no lightweight.”
“You’re not heavy,” Alex said thickly.
She felt heavy inside, so weighed down and full of tears, she could scarcely breathe. “I loved her. I always loved her.”
Alex was silent. He began to stroke her hair.
“But I didn’t know her. Not really. I was always too busy to talk to her. . . .” Her slim hand nervously gripped a fold of his shirt. “I wish I’d taken the time. I’ll never get the chance now.”
“Everyone always feels like that when a loved one dies. We all make mistakes. We just have to accept it.”
“Yes.” She didn’t speak for a moment. “Why did they shoot her, Alex? Is it my fault?”
“No.”
Her voice shook with anguish. “It doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense.”
“No, it doesn’t.” His voice broke on the last word, and his arms tightened around her. “We’ll talk about it later. Don’t think about it now.”
“Thank you for being so nice to me.”
His laugh held a hint of harsh desperation. “Nice? My God!”
She closed her eyes. “You’re kinder than you think you are.”
“Tell me that later.”
“I will. Kindness is important. You said that once, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Your voice sounds funny.”
“Because you’re killing me.”
It was odd, but at that moment of tragedy all the hurt and bitterness she had felt toward Alex had come crashing down. They were united in pain, bound together by a common guilt and sorrow. All that was important was the comfort he was giving her and the knowledge that he, too, had been fond of Katrine. Her arms tightened instinctively around him, trying to offer him the same comfort he was bringing to her. “I’m sorry.”
He buried his face in her hair. “Don’t talk anymore. Just try to rest.”
She lay silent, letting his warm strength flow through her, until gradually it brought a peaceful numbness in its wake. “Alex?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know, at times I actually thought I loved you.”
He stiffened against her. “No, don’t say that. You’ll regret it later.”
“I couldn’t think of any other reason that I was hurting so.” It was easy to admit to herself what she had fought so long to ignore, to speak the unspeakable now, when she was wrapped in this blanket of numbness and it didn’t matter any longer. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“You’re not embarrassing me,” he said thickly.
“That’s good. I was probably wrong anyway. We both know it doesn’t really exist. . . .” She kept her eyes tightly closed, shutting out the world, but she could still smell the smoke clinging to Alex, clinging to everything around her.
Was Vasaro still burning?
14
“How do you feel?” Chelsea gently touched Caitlin’s arm as they turned away from the grave. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No.” Caitlin looked back at the coffin that had been lowered into the grave. “There’s nothing anyone can do. She’s gone. It’s all gone.” Her gaze wandered around the familiar faces gathered around the grave site; Jacques, Pierre, Renée, most of the other workers, a few of Katrine’s friends from Nice. Jonathan Andreas had not been able to attend the funeral, as he had accompanied Peter Maskovel’s body home to West Virginia for burial. Alex had been there earlier, but she didn’t see him now. She quickly suppressed the remote pang of loneliness assaulting her at his absence.
Alex had taken care of all the funeral arrangements, fended off the reporters, police, Interpol, and government officials. He had held her when she woke screaming those first nights and kept the pain at bay until she went back to sleep. Thank God this blessed numbness had formed around her emotions after that initial nightmare period. Now she needed nothing and no one to help her. “Thank you for sending me this dress and for keeping those television cameras out of the cemetery.”
“I’ll take credit for the dress, but Alex handled the newsmen.” Chelsea paused. “And Dalpré. I don’t know how he managed to keep the ice man off you. He’s certainly been plaguing the rest of us.”
Alex again. Caring for her needs, making the way smooth for her. She knew she should feel gratitude, but nothing could get through this numb, icy wall that had formed around her.
“He thinks it’s Krakow who’s Ledford’s partner, not Dalpré.”
“I know. He told Jonathan. It’s a pretty wild guess, and he could be wrong.” Chelsea grimaced. “I hope he is. I could enjoy hating Dalpré’s guts.” She linked her arm through Caitlin’s, pushing her gently away from the grave toward the ornamental gates at the entrance of the cemetery. “I have to get back to the hospital. Are you going to be all right?”
Caitlin nodded.
Chelsea frowned. “No, really. As soon as Marisa can leave the hospital, I’m going to send her back to Los Angeles. My place there has top-notch security. Why don’t you go with her and stay until time for the launch?”
The launch. Chelsea was speaking of the perfume launch as if nothing had changed. Caitlin would have to talk to them about the perfume, but she couldn’t face it now. “That’s kind of you.” It was kind, and for a moment she wished she could feel something besides this icy hollowness. “But it won’t work. I have to—have to go back to Vasaro.”
Chelsea shook her head. “For God’s sake, Caitlin, you’re almost in shock. You’re in no shape to face—”
“I’m going. Will you drive me there before you go to the hospital?”
Chelsea hesitated and then shrugged. “Sure. Why not? This day can’t get much worse.”
Caitlin stood on the hill, her back to the ruin of the manor house, looking out over the blackened fields.
The trees of the olive and orange groves were only scorched, twisted skeletons. She had seen it all before in the last few days, but then she had hastily averted her eyes to keep the waves of sickness at bay.
She stood with her back straight, facing it, drinking it in, absorbing the pain, letting it fuel her cold rage and determination.
“You shouldn’t be here.” Alex came to her side. “Haven’t you had enough? You’ve been to one funeral today.”
“I needed to see it.” Caitlin didn’t take her eyes off the dark fields. “You’re right, it’s like the death of my child. No one has the right to do this . . . this . . . ugliness.”
“It can be an ugly world.”
“I didn’t think so.” Caitlin shook her head. “I always thought there were things we could do to keep bad things from happening. I was wrong.”
Alex took a step closer, reaching out in comfort. “Caitlin, it’s not the end of�
��”
“Don’t touch me.”
His hand fell to his side. “Okay. I understand.”
“No, you don’t.” He thought she blamed him for this atrocity, but she had no blame for anyone but herself. The reason she could not let him touch her was the danger he held for her. In the past he had possessed more power than anyone she had ever met to make her feel, and emotion was a threat to the barrier she had erected against the pain. She flung her hand out to encompass the ruin before them. “Do you understand how I feel about this? Before Ledford did this, all I wanted was to get the Wind Dancer back for Jonathan, but now I want him punished. I want them all punished.”
“You told me once you didn’t believe in revenge.”
“And you said I hadn’t been hurt enough. Tell me, Alex, have I been hurt enough now?”
“Yes.” He waited. Finally, he asked, “What now?”
“We go back to Istanbul. Did you think I’d give up? What else is there for me now? I was always so bitter that my mother had let my father hurt Vasaro.” She laughed, incredulous. “But I did it myself. I could have made one phone call to Jonathan and stopped this from happening. But I was so stupid I—” Her voice broke and she had to stop.
“It wasn’t your fault. It was mine.” Alex’s light eyes glittered in his strained face. “It all went wrong. Don’t do this. Christ, I don’t want you hurt anymore.”
“Should I just let it go? Should I just sit here and look out at those fields? My mother’s dead, Vasaro’s dead, and thirteen months from now my perfume will be dead.”
“I can’t do anything about Katrine’s death, but we can work something out about the rest.”
“What? Are you going to import blossoms from other farms? With all the research you did you should know that won’t work. The flowers have to be grown here in Vasaro earth to retain the true integrity of the scent. Look at that earth, Alex. It looks as if it were struck by a hydrogen bomb.”
“Jacques said he managed to collect slips and cuttings from most of the plants. Let me think about it. I tell you, we can—”
“No!” She couldn’t bear to talk about it. She turned on her heel and strode across the scorched lawn toward the car parked in the driveway. She could vaguely sense his pain and frustration, but she refused to let it touch her. She couldn’t let anything behind this icy wall or she might shatter. The wall must grow harder, taller, closing out the pain.
“Okay, you win, dammit.” He grasped her arm and turned her around to face him. “I want to show you something. A roll of film was found with Peter’s effects. Jonathan had it developed.” He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and drew out a photograph. “The small, squat man working in the field is Antonio Ferrazo. Look at him. Memorize his face. He killed your mother and Peter. He’ll kill you if he gets the chance.”
Caitlin looked down at the photograph. The man in the picture was smiling, and yet a day later he had helped bring down this devastation on Vasaro.
Alex thrust another picture at her. “And this is Ledford.”
She stared down at the blunt, ruddy face in the creased, dog-eared snapshot for a long time. “They both look so . . . ordinary.” She tucked the photographs in her purse. “Don’t worry, I’ll remember them.”
“You’d better.”
“What about Krakow?”
“I called Goldbaum and told him to double the surveillance on him.” He fell into step with her. “I’ve made arrangements to leave Nice today. I didn’t think I could persuade you to leave it alone.” His expression grew suddenly intent, as it always did when he was shuffling problems and possibilities. How well she knew that expression. Now that the decision was made, it was clear every effort was to be focused on methods to solve the problems it produced. “I’ve hired a jet to take us to a private landing field outside Istanbul. We’ll take a taxi to the covered bazaar and I’ll leave you there with Kemal while I scout around the cottage and make sure it’s still safe.”
She nodded agreement.
“We’ll stop at the village on the way to Nice and talk to Jacques about handling the insurance people.” He met her gaze as he opened the passenger door for her. “Jesus, I’m scared. Change your mind. I can send you to Port Andreas, where Jonathan can keep you safe. Don’t go back, Caitlin.”
She didn’t answer as she got in the car.
He swore as he slammed the car door.
“This is Ferrazo. I’m at the Hotel Divan in Istanbul.”
“I don’t give a damn where you are. Where are Karazov and the Vasaro woman?” Ledford asked.
“I can’t find them. I was at the airport all day and Karazov and the woman never showed.”
“Do you think Karazov would be fool enough to get on a commercial jet so that you could just pick them off as they left the airport?”
“Well, I couldn’t risk going back to Vasaro. Half of Interpol was churning around there after we torched the farm.”
Brian sighed. “I’m becoming very disappointed in you, Ferrazo.”
“He’s good,” Ferrazo said defensively. “You should have let me take them both out at Versailles.”
“No! You’re not to touch Karazov. The woman is the target, you idiot. If you think you can manage it.”
“I managed that bit at Vasaro, didn’t I?” Ferrazo’s tone turned surly. “But I have to find them first.”
“That may not be easy. The Gypsy says Karazov’s gone underground, and even he hasn’t been able to locate him since he came back to Istanbul. However, Karazov may try to contact him again.” Ledford paused, considering the problem. “Karazov knows about the house on the Street of Swords.”
“Then I’ll stake it out.”
“I’ll be arriving in Istanbul in three weeks.” Ledford’s voice was soft. “I want the woman out of the way when I get there, Ferrazo. I won’t tolerate a second mistake.”
Ledford didn’t wait for an answer as he replaced the receiver back on the telephone. It hadn’t surprised him that Alex had taken such pains to lose Ferrazo. The scope of the destruction Ledford had wreaked on Vasaro must have signaled his displeasure with the Vasaro woman in no uncertain terms. Oh, well, it was time Alex realized there must be no further betrayal of the integrity of their match.
“Why not kill Karazov if he knows about the house?”
Ledford stood up and turned to face Krakow, who sat in a chair across the room. “He won’t go running to Interpol. Don’t worry, I’ll deal with him.”
“Just be sure I’m not involved.” Krakow rose to his feet. “I’m going to call the news conference to announce the invitation this afternoon, and this will be the last time we’ll meet before Istanbul. I don’t think we should communicate by phone either. When this is over I must be—”
“Pure as the mountain air,” Ledford finished for him with a wide grin. “We’ll keep your skirts clean.”
“You know what to do?”
“I’ll have the threat phoned in to the police tomorrow.”
“And you’ll handle the job in Istanbul exactly as I’ve outlined?”
“Of course, you’re calling the shots.” Ledford beamed at him genially. “It’s actually a very good plan.”
“You won’t regret it. Once I’ve taken power, you’ll be—”
“You’d better leave,” Ledford interrupted. He couldn’t stomach the pompous bastard anymore today. “We don’t want to jeopardize everything when we’re so close to success.”
Krakow nodded. “I’m glad you realize the urgency of being discreet.”
Ledford watched Krakow move toward the door with military precision. God, he thought, Krakow’s back was as rigid as if he had a broomstick up his ass.
Krakow paused at the door. “Let me know when you’ve set up headquarters in Istanbul in case I have some last-minute instructions for you.”
“I’ll be sure to do that.” Ledford’s smile never wavered as he watched Krakow open the door. The bastard was going to give him instructions? All the adulatio
n Krakow had been receiving lately was making his ego swell to the size of the Goodyear blimp. He suddenly had the impulse to deflate that ego. “I’ve been thinking it might be a good idea to take out your wife.”
Krakow froze with shock. “What?”
“When we take out the other targets in Istanbul, it might be a good idea to—”
“Helga?”
That had shaken him. Ledford lowered his lids to veil the satisfaction in his eyes. “Why not? You could play the heartbroken widower and I’m sure it would allay suspicion.”
“I’ll . . . think about it.”
“For the cause. After all, I gave up three good men at the Louvre. One wife isn’t so much.”
“I told you I’d think about it,” Krakow said through clenched teeth. “I don’t believe it’s necessary.”
“You could trade her in for two of those long-legged blondes your country is so famous for.”
Krakow drew himself up with majestic dignity. “If I sanction Helga’s death, it would not be for puerile reasons.”
“Of course not.” Krakow almost had himself convinced he was doing all this for patriotic reasons and not to become a god. It was always a mistake to lie to yourself, even if you lied to everyone else in the world. Brian crossed the room and opened the door for Krakow. “Just a thought.”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Do that.” Brian closed the door behind Krakow and moved toward the telephone again. He probably shouldn’t have pulled the son of a bitch’s string, but Krakow was such an uptight prick, he hadn’t been able to resist. Krakow persisted in believing that Brian Ledford was a stupid hit man. He laughed. Krakow would be damn surprised when he found out he had been dealing with a man of enormous cunning.
It was time, Brian decided, to start the next step of his own plan. He picked up the phone and dialed the White Star Shipping Line.
Reap the Wind Page 34
