by Gayle Lynds
“Very,” Liz told him.
“Bon. Then we fly.”
Langley, Virginia
In his office, Frank Edmunds swore into the phone. “Damn. Not a sign, then?”
“We located the Peugeot in a private parking garage in Pigalle. Sansborough and Childs must’ve pulled it off the street not long after you sent me to find them. Anyway, we checked the Peugeot and the garage, but there was nothing to tell us where they went. But listen to this, Frank: The street’s crawling with antiterrorist forces. They stopped four guys who were trying to get away, and now they’re searching everywhere. The only good thing was all the noise and fuss attracted our attention. But then they came back to search, and we had to get out fast, before they identified us. Talk about bad luck.”
Edmunds suspected luck had little to do with it. In fact, the antiterrorist raid smacked of Sansborough or Childs. It was becoming obvious that others were after them, and whoever it was could have cornered them in the garage. Reporting terrorist activity would have been a clever way for the pair to scare off the attackers and escape at the same time. At least, that was what made sense to him.
In any case, Sansborough and Childs had slipped through Langley’s net again. For someone who was supposed to be loony tunes, she seemed to have a lot on the ball. More and more, he wondered whether Jaffa could be wrong. What if her report was real? What if she was sane?
There was only one way to find out. “Okay. Keep your men on it. Sansborough and Childs are probably disguised, but what are we if we can’t see through a disguise? Have you traced her arrival in Paris and where she went after that?”
“Couldn’t, Frank. Know why? Because there’s no evidence she ever came to Paris or France at all. Not a damn trace.”
Edmunds’s unease grew. “What about Asher Flores and Sarah Walker?”
“That’s another weird story. Flores really was in Paris but under his own name, so it makes no damn sense that he’s in black cover. Anyway, I found out through my contact in the gendarmerie that Flores and his wife are registered at the Hôtel Valhalla, paid up a week, until Sunday. But this morning, a corpse was found in their closet. This is what the cops know: Walker was in and out before that, but no one’s seen her since. No one’s seen Flores since Tuesday night. The cops are getting ready to issue arrest warrants, if they haven’t already. That’s as far as I’ve gotten.”
“Keep digging, Jeff.” Edmunds’s stomach churned. He could feel an attack of heartburn starting. “Into all of them. Into everything! And find Sansborough, dammit.”
“Are we still supposed to wipe Sansborough and Childs?”
Edmunds hesitated. Swearing under his breath, he reached for his Prevacid.
“Frank? Are you there?”
“I’m here.” He swallowed the pill, drank more water, and sighed. “Hold off. We’d better find out what the fuck’s going on for sure before we go to extreme measures.”
He ended the connection and punched in the first number of Walter Jaffa’s extension. And stopped. Was Sansborough’s outrageous story true after all? She might have done the Company some harm years ago because of her father, but before that, she was one of their own.
He slammed down the phone. Until he found out a lot more, he would not report this to Jaffa.
Forty-One
Northumberland, England
From the air, the moon cast a silver veil across the wild border valley of the North Tyne River. The small plane flew over thick woods and dramatic moorlands and isolated ridges of windswept heather. As Simon watched, Gary Faust piloted the plane along the river to a sprawling farm, where he brought it in for a gentle touchdown…until the tires hit the rudimentary runway. The plane jumped and rattled. Still, the old maqui had been right: It could land on a postage stamp.
Liz awoke, yawning and stretching, and they taxied toward the farmhouse. At the end of the strip, Faust turned off the Mercury radial engine.
“Nice landing,” Simon said as they climbed out.
“Oui, and you are relieved to be safely on terra firma,” the Frenchman observed, not bothering to hide his amusement. Simon had been on alert the whole way.
“She surprised me,” he said. “She’s as sturdy as you said.”
Liz stared, remembering his tension when she suggested flying to England. “You don’t like to fly—at all.”
He shrugged, shot her an embarrassed grin, and they hurried off, Faust between them. Scattered trees and bushes moved, wavering with the black wind. Above them, charcoal-dusted clouds raced across the starlit sky. Simon noticed that Liz, too, was surveying the house and outbuildings. The likelihood of having been followed was remote. Still, neither could—or would—relax.
Faust had phoned ahead and discovered his friend Paul Hamilton, a decorated RAF pilot from the war, had left in his De Haviland Humming Bird for an air show in Kent. Still, Hamilton said they could borrow his Jeep. Faust located a key hidden behind a window box of red geraniums by the kitchen door. He stepped inside and returned, handing keys to the Jeep to Liz.
She thanked him. “Is that Bellingham?” she nodded at a sprinkling of lights. If so, the roadway along it was the B6320, which also ran past Lord Henry Percy’s estate.
“Oui, that it is.” He turned to Simon. “Good-bye, son.” He shook Simon’s hand and took Liz’s shoulders again, quickly kissed both cheeks, and wheeled off. “Good luck.” His voice trailed back, carried on the wind.
Liz and Simon ran to the garage and pulled open the door. Inside were a Jeep and a motorcycle. They climbed into the Jeep, and she backed it out. He found a map in the glove compartment. It had been twenty years since she’d visited Henry. Ten years since Simon had. She sped the Jeep onto an asphalt road and then to the country highway, where she turned south, skirting the lazy river and the dense forests of Northumberland National Park. The roadway was nearly deserted.
“This time, we can be certain we’re not being tailed,” she told him.
“Except by the phantoms of the Border Reivers.”
“You’re reminding me of Henry’s colorful stories.”
He smiled and peered around, as if looking for the feuding farmer-bandits who had raided crops and animals for centuries on either side of the English-Scottish border. The earls of Northumberland—Henry’s family, the Percys—had ruled like kings in those lawless days.
She smiled, too, suddenly feeling lighthearted. They had lost their hunters, and she indulged in a sweet sense of optimism. Somewhere, Sarah and Asher were alive, she promised herself, waiting for Simon and her to find the files and them.
At last, Simon spotted a mass of boulders that looked like a reclining man. Called the Sleeping Drunk among locals but described in tourist brochures as the Reclining Sage, it signaled the beginning of Baron Henry Percy’s estate. She turned the Jeep onto the familiar drive, which pointed straight ahead like an arrow. But now it was so overgrown with trees that the branches scraped the sides of the Jeep like bony fingers.
“I don’t remember this,” she said.
“I don’t either. Odd that Clive would let it get out of hand. He was always so fastidious.”
With the moonlight cut off by the canopy of growth, the tunnel was black. She flicked on the Jeep’s bright lights and sped through, passing a glen with a stream where they had picnicked as children. At last, the arbor disappeared, and they had a clear view of the Moorlands—the rambling manor house that had always been Henry’s country home, until he finally retired and turned over his investment interests to a handful of nephews and nieces. At that point, the Moorlands became his full-time residence, except for excursions to Africa and the Far East and the occasional anthropological trip to Las Vegas. Henry, Lord Percy, was an old-fashioned, tight-suspendered Englishman who liked the occasional adventure. Or at least he had.
She parked at the side of the big house, in the shadow of a grape arbor.
“The zoo is gone,” Simon said as he climbed out. He walked away from the Jeep and stared across to
where corrals and picturesque sheds had housed zebras and Andean goats and llamas, as well as other exotic animals. Now there was simply a field. The riding stables still stood north, but there were no horses in sight.
“I don’t smell manure,” she said.
“Neither do I. The horses are gone, too.”
The lawn was tidily clipped, and summer flowers bloomed in planters along the stone walkway. The stone mansion itself seemed in good repair, and the two ancient oaks she remembered from her childhood towered in front, taller, wider, more stately than ever. Still, the building and grounds had the feel of gentility grown tired.
As Simon and she strode around the drive and onto the front walk, she scooped up the Times and saw it was the early Friday edition. “Here’s a good sign. He’s still addicted to at least one newspaper.”
“Let me see that.”
Simon stopped before the massive single door, took it from her, and opened one page after the other of the first section, holding each up to the moonlight, until she realized what he was looking for.
She swore and took the second section from him. But he was the one who found it—four photos, two news items. She leaned into him, feeling nervous, anger growing as she stared: The photos were of her, Sarah, Asher, and Mac, who, according to the caption, was a New Jersey businessman named Aldo Malchinni. One story covered London CID’s hunt for her in connection to Patricia Childs’s murder, while the other one described the Paris police’s search for Sarah Walker and Asher Flores for questioning in the murder of Malchinni. The story noted she and Sarah were cousins and almost identical in appearance.
“Oh, hell,” she breathed.
“This could be very bad for you tomorrow. Maybe you shouldn’t go to Dreftbury with me. We don’t—”
Abruptly, lights blazed on above the door, illuminating the walk and drive. She slid her hand into her shoulder bag and gripped her Glock, and Simon slipped his under his jacket, to his Beretta. They looked at each other.
“A bit jumpy, aren’t we?” she said.
He nodded, withdrew his hand, and folded the paper. “We’ll have to get rid of this.”
“Who’s there?” It was not Clive’s voice.
They said their names. Seconds later, the door opened.
Henry Percy received them in the library on the first floor, a Douglas tartan over his knees where he sat in a wingback chair, although Liz and Simon had been waiting in the foyer and had not seen him come downstairs. While there, Simon had stuffed the newspaper behind the antediluvian umbrella stand.
Now Clive knelt at the fireplace in a blue robe, slippers, and pajamas, and poked a small blaze. His wizened face glanced occasionally up at the baron as if to be sure he was well. Clive was nearly as old as Henry and had shrunk, although he appeared as spry and irritable as ever. But by his stiff back and glowering gaze, he clearly objected to the visit. Another servant—Richard—stood across the book-filled room, arms politely at his sides, also in robe and slippers, waiting to be needed. More than a half century younger than Henry and Clive, he had met Liz and Simon at the front door.
“Lizzie! Simon!” Henry stretched out his hands, parchment skin freckled with age spots. “How good to see you. We won’t mention the beastly hour. I’m certain you wouldn’t be here unless it was important.”
His face was longer and thinner than Liz recalled, but mostly unlined, despite his more than nine decades. His sparse white hair was brushed neatly back. His most remarkable feature was still his thick, beetling brows, now silver. Beneath them, his gray eyes were almost colorless, although they retained a piercing quality that at one time could shoot fear into rivals or peer gently into a child’s most heartfelt cares.
“It is important,” Liz assured him. “But it’s also wonderful to be with you again.” She took one hand and kissed his sunken cheek.
Simon took the other. “You’re looking grand, Henry. Thanks for letting us impose.”
Henry beamed. “No imposition at all. Tea, Clive. Something hot and pleasant. Oolong, I think.”
“I shouldn’t suppose they’d like sandwiches, sir.” Clive glowered. “Cook must be awake. Impossible to miss the fuss. She’ll cut off the crusts.”
“Sandwiches?” Simon said. “That would be excellent. Thank you, Clive.”
Liz said, “May I give you a kiss, for old times’ sake?”
Clive frowned but presented his right cheek. Liz leaned toward the small man and pecked the wrinkled skin. There was the briefest of smiles, and he was gone.
World War II hero, former MP, diplomat, and international businessman, Henry, Lord Percy, was a direct descendant of the fourth Lord Percy, the first earl of Northumberland, who died in 1409. It was his son, Henry, who had so distinguished himself in battle at the age of twelve that he was designated Hotspur and immortalized nearly two centuries later by Shakespeare in King Henry IV and King Richard II. Before he died, Hotspur had a son out of wedlock with a girl in Wark, to whom he gave his name. This irregular line of Percys thrived, becoming tradesmen and local officials and eventually going off to London to make their marks. The current Henry’s grandfather had bought this old mansion south of Wark, bringing the family home again at last.
“Sit, sit.” Henry lengthened a finger at a leather-covered settee across from him.
Liz and Simon sank onto it. The fire crackled, and on the mantel, a Victorian clock ticked. The ceiling was at least sixteen feet high, the walls below lined with wood shelves packed with leather-bound volumes. The air smelled of oiled leather and the inviting fire.
Henry looked at the man at the door. “Richard, be polite and leave.”
“But Clive said—”
“I’m still in charge.” Henry’s voice was dry and had a slight tremble, but his firm delivery had the finality of a guillotine.
Liz and Simon exchanged a glance. Henry’s mind was operating fine.
His jaw muscles clenching, Richard inclined his head and walked out.
Liz watched the door close. “Henry, we have a situation—” she began.
But Henry raised a gaunt hand, stopping her. His gaze was sharp, accusatory, as he said, “I saw a story about you on the BBC, Liz. Did you kill Tish Childs?”
She blinked, surprised. “Of course not! You know I could never do such a thing!”
His chin stuck out. “You were CIA. Obviously, you could have.”
“It’s got nothing to do with skill, dammit. You know that. You know me. Tish was tortured and murdered. How could you even think I’d do such a horrible thing!”
She glared, and he glared.
The ticking of the clock seemed to grow louder. She would not look away.
He seemed to see something that decided him. His shoulders relaxed. “I had to ask. People change.” He gave a tired smile. “Here you come in the middle of the night, waking my household. It had to be serious. I thought perhaps—”
“You were wrong.”
“Yes, I can see that. Put it up to a feeling of mortality. Advancing age can make one afraid. I wager you never thought you’d hear me admit that.” He leaned forward on his elbows. “Really, Liz dear. I’m sorry.”
There was moistness in his eyes.
With a burst of compassion, she leaned forward, too, and patted his hand. “I adore you, Henry. Always have, always will. It’s forgotten.”
Simon cleared his throat. “Well, glad that’s over. And glad you’re sitting down, Henry. We do have a situation. Bugger of a hornet’s nest. Are you up to hearing it?”
The old man settled back into his chair. “Wouldn’t miss it. It’s been a long time since anyone’s brought me something dicey.”
“It begins with Father. His suicide.”
Darkness swept across Henry’s face, and his mouth tightened. From the extensive Childs and Percy families to the top of parliament, it was well known that the powerful Henry Percy treated Sir Robert as if he were the son he never had.
“I never understood why Robbie did it,” Henry said. “T
hose were bloody damn lies about him and call girls.”
“Mother and he were too close for that.” Outrage shot from Simon’s eyes.
Henry nodded, angry. “But afterward, a lot of his so-called friends hinted to the press he’d been philandering for years.” His lip curled. “That’s just one problem with politics these days—an insatiable desire to appear to be ‘in the know.’ Let’s hear about this hornet’s nest of yours, children. Perhaps there is something I can do.”
Le Bourget Airport, France
César Duchesne sat low in his taxicab, his cap pulled down to his eyebrows, the window open. As he slouched behind the steering wheel, he alternately dozed and snapped awake the instant the night sounds altered. He was resting while at the same time staying on guard. The habits of a lifetime were useful.
Of course, it was possible the pilot of the plane would stay with Sansborough and Childs, wherever he had taken them, but Duchesne doubted it. The man had a circus to operate. More likely, he would return quickly, hoping no one had missed him.
As Duchesne had predicted to Cronus, one of his drivers had finally spotted Sansborough and Childs—this time as they approached the place de Clichy. After that, a fresh three-man taxi team with night-vision surveillance had taken over, following as the pair rode the bus, transferred, disembarked the last time, and walked. Basil called with the news they had met some old man, gotten into his plane, and flown off.
Now Duchesne waited alone, his taxi parked in the shadow of the big top. A breeze ruffled the tent’s canvas sides. Ropes clattered against poles. As he listened, his mind drifted back over the years to happier times, when he was young and powered by outrage. When he thought life would turn out far differently, and happiness was possible. A dark sadness washed through him, followed by bone-deep rage. With his usual steely will, he banished the emotions.
